


His Skin

by mathildia



Category: Robin Hood (BBC 2006)
Genre: Edging, Loneliness, Masochism, Masturbation, Other, light self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 10:48:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3131753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mathildia/pseuds/mathildia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one ever touches him. No one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Skin

Not that anyone ever asks, but if they did ask, if they did, what he would say is, that he covers every part of himself purposely. Like this. So he is separate from it all. 

Maybe that’s it. Maybe that isn’t it.

Maybe it’s because the leather he wears is the only skin to touch his skin in years. Since he was a boy, really. No one touches him anymore and sometimes the way he feels for the want of it, is like an itch, and other times it’s like a burning.

It’s too cold to sleep naked. But he does anyway. He heaps his bed with furs, sheds all the leather and slips under them. More skin. The fur. More skin on his untouched skin. 

Sometimes he scrapes his fingernails against his thigh. He’s never sure if this act is a sin. He lets his nails grow, for this, a little longer than is really seemly; but not enough to attract comment. Not that anyone would comment. Not that there is anyone to pay attention to him and his imperfections, to the minutiae of his body. His skin feels so cold sometimes. Almost unearthly, inhuman, enough that he wonders what he is - what sort of creature he is, really, underneath it all. 

He lets his nails, the four fingernails of his left hand, all in a row, trace a line on the outside of his left thigh. Back and forth, over and over, just where the long plane of his leg melts into his hipbone. He keeps going until the skin feels hot and breaks a little, not to bleed - not yet - but just to pucker and turn white (whiter). Until it hurts enough that he gasps out, and that’s when his cock grows harder. He likes the pain. He doesn’t understand why. What sense is there in such a predilection? It’s a madness and it’s a weakness. Sometimes he bites his own lip so hard, or pinches his nipples until he cries out.

More even than Guy craves a soft loving touch of another person, he craves a cruel brutal one. He closes his eyes and thinks, tries so hard to imagine, a slap to the face. Just that. He tells himself it will be no more than that.

Until he thinks about how it would feel too if he was tied or chained for that slap. Forced to his knees and unable to protect himself or turn his head away, held by the hair and hit again and again; harder until he was in tears. His face burning with the sting and the humiliation of it.

He has seen so much torture, inflicted it himself, made men cry for their mothers and yet, his cock still stirs at the thought of being used this way. Letting someone find beauty in his suffering. He presses his fingernails harder into his skin now, and - yes - it breaks fully, and at the same time wraps his right hand firmly around his throat, until his hips are bucking, cock hard and leaking.

He will not touch himself there, that would be sinful. Sin is to be avoided. 

He holds his own throat tighter, making his breath frantic, and he writhes against the fur; tormenting himself until he’s gasping under his own cruelty. He imagines himself at the gibbet. Hooded and tied, a noose at his neck. Helpless and vulnerable, with a crowd he cannot see, jeering to see him dance. His left hand comes up, grasps his hair and jolts his head back hard enough that he yells in pain.

He’s close to spilling now and he knows he mustn’t. That would be taking this game too far. Bad enough that such thoughts of degradation brought him this close, without letting them tip him over. Shuddering and keening he takes his hands off his body, wills his hips to still themselves and waits; listens in the dark to his own ragged breath. 

The next day he will still be able to feel that little line of broken skin under the leather. Leather that will cover him and shield him from everything, and shield everything from him. 

And sometimes, when feels it, he will think, that is where someone touched me.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr is here (mainly trash) 
> 
> http://mathildia.tumblr.com


End file.
